Orgasmic Living

Falling: A Meditation on Love

View from Castro Heights

Originally posted January 17, 2012

We travel initially to lose ourselves and we travel next to find ourselves. We travel to open our hearts and eyes and learn more about the world than our newspapers will accommodate. We travel, in essence, to become young fools again, to slow time down and get taken in and fall in love once more--Pico Iyer 

Anyone who knows me, knows that when I say I am committed to doing something, I do it full-out, all the way to the end.

Some may call this perseverance.

Some may call this folly.

I simply call it “falling.”

There’s a reason I’ve worn the guards around my heart for so many years. Yes, I can love the unloveable in a general way—give a little hit of the orgasm drug to the junkies and then scurry off to another corner of the planet. But to stick around long enough for you to see my folly…not on your life!

But I have a secret. Now, don’t tell anyone this, because it’s pretty well-hidden (but not really). It’s this innocent place that, if discovered, will reveal that I’m not really as worldly and jaded and smart as I pretend to be.

It’s this place where, if I acknowledge just how much I love you and how much you mean to me, then I am totally yours. Forever. Deeply, deeply devoted in a kind of full-on surrender that I completely lose who I am in pursuit of knowing and experiencing this one true thing.

I know it in acting. But I wasn’t happy with just one impossible cause.

I know it in orgasm. And yet two also just didn’t seem like enough.

So why not really make a fool of myself? Go for the great triumvirate! The cosmic hat trick! Mind, body, spirit! Father, son, holy ghost! Or whatever fucking parallel you want to make.

The point is this: I am in love with a boy.

There. I said it. I admit it.

I.

Am.

In.

Love.

With.

A.

Boy.

Yup. A mere mortal. No great cause to sweep away the suffering of the world, but an angel in human form that I keep merely for my own selfish pleasure.

Please forgive me that we are already 374 words into this blog post and I have still yet to release my sardonic tone. But the fact is I need it as a buffer in order to get the tiniest shred of love to trickle out onto the page.

Innocence. Right. Change of stroke.

So what does it mean to fall in love in an orgasmic world? Well, for starters, there’s a sort of conscious pride-death that takes happens. In muggle terms, that means I giggle stupidly when he’s around…all the time…even when he is putting on his socks. There’s a way in which he’ll tell me he doesn’t like what I am wearing and I will tear up my boxes to find something we both like. There’s a way in which I can downstroke him, right in the middle of penetration, and he will let that sword in and I will ride the slicing pain of sensation all the way down to the bottom. There’s a way in which he can tell me in the moment, “I don’t want you moving to LA. I want to marry you, move to the suburbs and make babies,” and because he is so honest with me, I feel like I can trust him—which makes me love him even more. And there’s a way in which we have an upturned palm surrounding the relationship. It doesn’t grasp or cling, but it holds itself open, ready to let go (or receive) at any moment.

And it’s for this reason that I keep coming back. It doesn’t mean that he and I don’t get jealous or scared or annoyed or bored or obsessive or whatever. What it means is that our ability to trust and to surrender expands the container of our relationship to include all of that “negative” energy, alchemize it to turn-on and fuel our desires.

He was nervous a few weeks ago to tell me about an interaction he had with another woman. In the old model of relating, we normally hide things like that from our lovers because we think they are too fragile and we don’t want to hurt their feelings (or so we say…many times it’s just our own shame in admitting how greedy we are sexually). In any case, I began to ask him about his makeout. Was it hot? Where did you feel the most sensation? What did that interaction reveal in you? Or was it just a good, old-fashioned, apple-pie fuck? And as he talked, I got more and more turned-on, hungry to feel more of him.

I like feeling his desire. I like knowing what makes him happy. I like that he wants to include me in the ENTIRE landscape of his sexuality—not just the confident, successful façade most men show. The good stuff is in the greasy bits left in the bottom of the cast iron skillet. The angry, hard bits. The unctuous butter. The concentrated salt. The blackened bitter. The way he slaps my face while I roll on top of him and choke his throat. Or in the way I lay my head sweetly on his shoulder and press my hand gently on the dark fur of his chest.

And I love that he’ll ask me “What do you want?” again…and again…and again…and again…patiently awaiting the moment when I finally burn through my shame and pride and simply say, “I want you to hold me in the soft warmth of this bed.”

Or I’ll say, “I want you to move to LA with me and start your business there!”

Or I’ll say, “I want eggs…no I want oatmeal…no I want a green drink…no I want chamomile tea…no I want toast with almond butter…NO! Kombucha! That’s it!”

In the end (if there really is such a thing), it doesn’t matter what it looks like. And that’s what’s most important for me. That’s the part (if this were an OM) that has my nervous system relax, trust that the container is tight enough, and allow anything to orgasmically arise. Perhaps the relationship plays out until I move to LA. Maybe it tumultuously climaxes next time we see each other. Maybe we create a long-distance partnership that spans years. Maybe we move to Kathmandu together and become hermits for the rest of our lives. The point is we are not relating in a way that is rooted in what was or what might be (though these things do come up naturally). But we work to keep our attention in the present moment and on the sensation right now. And we trust that if we feel our way, all will unfold in its divine intelligence.

I have travelled to lose myself, to find myself, to open my eyes and ears, to slow down, to meet my fool and to get swept away. I have travelled all the way across the country to know this place. Might as well fall in.

Orgasm in the Marketplace: Engaging Hunger, Turn On & the Shadow

December 2, 2011, 4th St and Mission, SF

Originally posted December 4, 2011

I went out yesterday afternoon on an errand.  I wore a short, black dress for the unseasonably warm December day in San Francisco. Low-cut. Spaghetti straps. I was only going to the dry cleaners, but I felt “on”. I felt good. And I wanted attention. I walked downstairs. The men in my community started flirting with me. Watching me as I walked to the bathroom. As I swung my hips. As my legs swished past each other in my arrogant strut. I could feel just how badly they wanted to fuck me. I loved it.

And then I turned the corner. From my insulated little block, I headed towards the open streets of SoMa. And at first it started with just a guy on a bike with a bright orange shirt.

“Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey girl, I’d like to get to know you!”

He bellows this as he circles past me a few times. It’s harmless. I crack a smile. “Approve,” I say to myself. But some part of me is starting to shrink back. I walk down Howard, past a grocery store with immigrant workers unloading boxes from a truck. They take their time to watch me as I walk past.

And then I turn onto 6th street. Clumps of men standing everywhere. Hungry. For everything. Drugs. Food. Connection. Pussy. Care. Love.

“It’s only one block,” I think to myself, clutching my bag and covering my exposed chest. And how I hate myself for this. A guilt rises in me that screams, “You arrogant, little white princess. Look at you running. How would you like to be fucked now, huh? You have it so good. And what did you expect wearing something like that?”

I move quickly past as one of the guys screams out, “Hey, I like them legs! Mmmm mmmmmm…”

I duck into the cleaners—safe for now in this business-focused interaction. The script has been worked out and rehearsed in this scene and my sex has nothing to do with it (or so I tell myself).

I head out of there, back to the urban jungle of 6th street, and quickly start to make my way home, when I see a very old man hobbling (drunkenly) down the road. He has a deep limp, a cane and very floppy sandals that do not bode well for his intended trajectory towards the sidewalk curb. I keep moving though—until I hear a crashing scrape just behind me. The man has fallen over and is bleeding from his ears (though, by the looks of him, the blood could have been present even before he hit the sidewalk). Myself and three other men (one of them wearing a suspicious Fedora hat) gather around.

“Are you alright man?” one of them asks. “Hey, hey don’t move,” he says. He starts banging on the locked gates of the shelter, trying to get some assistance. The door is open. I can see people inside moving in response to the situation at my feet.

The situation. This man is not a man, but a situation. And I am frozen. Impotent. This human being is lying here in front of me. Completely out of contact with the present, and yet he is still a human in need of immediate attention. All the horrible, self-centered thoughts come up.

“What if I touch his blood and get some sort of disease?”

“What if I bend over and expose the fact that I am not wearing underwear to the denizens of 6thstreet?”

“Am I really helping him here or just standing here because I think I should help?”

“What if I go to pick him up and clutches at my breasts or bites me or hits my face?”

I feel so ruthless and disgusting. The men who reflect my light are worthy of my time and attention, but those who reflect my shadows are to be handled by those of a lesser kind.

And when I see that the shelter workers have it handled, I rush on (but not before Fedora man offers me a piece of silver to buy—never miss an opportunity, that one).

I think I hear one of them commenting on “that girl that’s running away,” (or is it just my own conscience—a sort of vanity-driven Tell-Tale Heart?) as I turn the corner onto Howard street into the sunshine of the late afternoon. As I make my way down the final stretch onto Moss, I catch from the corner of my eye an older man slowing down and to stare at my ass.

I make it back home and somehow feel saddened. Not quite crushed, but muted. Dampened. And confused. How much of that was me in my own shame-y, me-centered world imagining everyone looking at me and how much of that was actually the cloud of others’ starvation engulfing me. A little of both, I imagine.

And this leaves me wondering: how do I go out into the world and shine my turn on and still stay conscious and feeling into all the pain that surrounds me, while still maintaining healthy boundaries? How can I both in approval of my extreme vanity and humbleness. My insecurity and confidence? My repulsion and my compassion? When am I acting out of “shoulds” or daring myself into some extreme situation just to prove how brave I am and when am I outing out of true desire?

Honestly, I don’t have a clear answer for any of this. The only things I can come up seem vague and not very comforting, but there are a few:

2. Remember that you are not alone. We all have our vanity. Our insecurity. Our entitlement. The places where we more important than others and the places where we feel like pathetic pieces of shit. It’s in remembering our common human frailties that the seeds of compassion are sown.

3. Don’t be afraid to make mistakes. To look a little rough and ugly. That’s living an orgasmic life. In the involuntary. Without a Step-by-Step How-To Manual. Just a present-moment compass and some vague sense of North. Learn the lesson, say you’re sorry, clean up and move on.

4. Express what is real for you in the moment. If you are feeling scared and want to run away, admit it. If you are repulsed, don’t try to be a “good, loving person.” Just admit you are repulsed. Until you are comfortable looking at ALL the emotional options on the table, you will continue the unconscious pattern of choosing the “shoulds” as opposed to being authentic. And then you are not truly free.

So instead of getting caught in the mire about how I am not Mother Theresa and I should have kept my turn on out and I should have more approval and say thank you and smile and be nicer to people, I just said Fuck It. I am freaked out and scared and horrified and hate my sex and hate the world and wish everyone would just wake up and take responsibility for their lives so we can all tap into our orgasm and live from purpose and desire so we find love for ourselves and stop war and save the planet and be ready for the next evolutionary phase of our existence. Is that so much to ask?!

OK, maybe I put a little too much pressure on myself. But this is the edge I am riding these days. Living a turned-on life and exposing myself to a hungry world that either tries to kill you with a jealous hammer or suck you dry of your turn-on.

What that also requires of then is to acknowledge the places I am hungry. I think that’s the biggest piece for me to get here. Their hunger reflects my own scarcity. And I don’t want to look at that because then I have to admit that I am not independent, invincible and can hold it all together. I see the beggar in me through their eyes. I see the hustler in me through their words. I see the vampire in me through their actions. And no amount of glossy, attractive men wanting to fuck me can cover that up.

But if I can learn to love myself here, then I can truly learn to love it out there. Then wherever I am, no matter who is there, there will be no need to cover the flame of my orgasm.

150 miles on the back of a Harley: A Lesson in Trust

The Harley

Originally posted November 20, 2011

"Do you have patience to wait til your mud settles and the water is clear? Can you remain unmoving til the right action arises by itself?"
--Lao Tzu

I’m having a hard time trusting the universe right now. Or rather, it’s not that I’m having a hard time trusting—it’s more like “Why am I still here? Am I insane to trust this? Am I looking at the world with Pollyanna, rose-colored glasses?”

I got to San Francisco five weeks ago. Since then, I have had a falling out with one of my dearest friends, I can’t seem to find any reliable source of income to save my life, I haven’t performed on stage or film in months and the littlest things make me burst out in tears. I feel a profound sense of failure much of the time and a general confusion about who I am and what I am supposed to be doing in the world. All I want to do is go home and have my mother take care of me.

“Who’s gonna save me!?”

“When is it all gonna pay off!?”

“I’m a good person, when do I get to be in the spotlight?!”

I hear my whiny little victim voice. I pay attention to her, listen to her, love her, and then keep going back into the fire.  Where I face all the ways I steal energy from other people. Where I flash a lot of sexy bravado, but run away at the most tender intimacy. Where I take shortcuts in getting what I want rather than standing in my power and simply asking. Where I kill other people (with a smile on my face) because I am secretly jealous/threatened/insecure.

And I am supposed to trust that everything is being perfectly handled by the universe to guide me in fulfilling my sacred contract?

Well…yes.

A few weekends ago, I got an invitation to spend the night in Calistoga, right next to Napa. A night away from it all and among the beauty of wine country sounded like a dream to me, so I immediately said yes. The catch was that it was a 75-mile trip north and I would have to ride on the back of a motorcycle. Well, I’m a tough bitch, I thought, so that shouldn’t be a problem.

Whoa. First of all I had some intense gear to wear, plus a heavy backpack. Second of all, the seat can get mighty painful to your lady parts after straddling it for some time. And third of all, there is no freakin’ seatbelt (windows, airbag, protection, etc.) on that thing. It’s just you, the asphalt and a lot of metal zipping by you at 80 miles per hour.

This was an experience in total trust. I had to trust that my driver knew how to handle the machine and not play my usual helpful-but-fearfully-controlling-backseat-driver. I had to pay constant attention to the road and to the turns. There is no enjoying the scenic view and jamming to your favorite tunes. You lean when he leans. You brace yourself for the bumps as they approach. You hold tighter as he accelerates. You remain still and centered as he slows down. It becomes an intense meditation—and if you check out in any way, there is no reset button. So even though there’s cold rain and wind on my thighs and my feet are vibrating intensely and my shoulders ache and my wrists are sore from gripping him and I am silently freaking out as we inch past 50…60…70 mph, I just stay focused on the ride and don’t let go.

Because I know it won’t last forever.

So this is where I am now. Through the crying and depression and lack of focus and intense fears and ugly parts of myself, I know it won’t last forever. And it is a necessary step on my path in order to enjoy the warm bath and fine wine to come. And I know it’s worth it. I can feel it deep within my core.

My night in Calistoga was an extraordinary collage of wine, food, spa and landscape that was well worth the price of cold fingers and a sore butt. And when I look at my desires for my life (to create films that bring the taboo into light and find the gift within it), I think to myself, “ Well, I suppose I should actually feel what it is I want to express if I am going to express it.”

So now, this trust has become sort of a game. Can I actually love my crying fits? Can I enjoy feeling the pain of a thousand unfulfilled desires burn through me? Is there a chance to “get off” in this wet, slimy, hairy underbelly of existence that keeps pulling me down?

Really, the choice is clear. Anything less than a full, surrendered “yes” is a step back towards suffering and victimhood.

Incidentally, the 75-mile ride back down to San Francisco, was a LOT friendlier. The sun was out, I knew how to handle myself on the bike, I had a sense of how long it was going to be and I asked for towel to cushion my ass. I suppose life really is just a practice in exploring our edges and pushing our boundaries beyond our known limits. And then that which we found unbearable before, becomes easier to hold as we expand.

That is, until an even scarier ride comes along…and then we do the whole thing all over again.

Occupy My Heart: An NYC Love Story

This video was uploaded from an Android phone.

Originally posted November 4, 2011

13 years, 1 month, 8 days.

13 years.

1 month.

8 days.

How do you measure an era of one’s life (ok, that sounds a little cheesily Rent-esque, but you get the point).

That’s how long I lived in New York City—that sprawling, electric rainforest of cultures, experiences and concrete. Lots of concrete. Love it or hate it (or love to hate it), it’s a city that demands to be respected and pushes you to the edge.

I arrived there one week before turning 18 to embark on the dream of an acting career. I left at 31 to embark on an evolved version of my dream: to bring orgasm to the world through acting in film (if you had asked me two years ago if I would have ever written that sentence, I would have looked at you like you had three heads).

I lived in Washington Square, Kips Bay, South Williamsburg, Clinton Hill, Morningside Heights,Yorkville, Washington Heights, Cobble Hill, Astoria and East Elmhurst (with a 2 week stint in Midwood, Brooklyn thrown in for good measure).

I was in Brooklyn during 9/11 (four days after my 21st birthday), walked from the Upper East Side to Times Square during the 2003 blackout and spent part of my last evening in the city at Occupy Wall Street.

I worked in the offices of NYU, behind the bar of an East Village 24-hour diner, taught in the studios of numerous yoga spots, served coffee at the Washington Heights Starbucks, sold jewelry at a fine crafts gallery in Brooklyn, and coached many people in the subtle but extraordinary practice of Orgasmic Meditation.

I performed in theatres in the Lower East Side, Times Square, Hells Kitchen, the Upper West Side, Chinatown, and both the East and West Village. I co-founded a theatre company that is still going strong and co-wrote/co-produced a play that went on to the 2007 NYC Fringe Festival. I shot an indie film and numerous commercials all over the tri-state area.

And yet, none of this really matters on the surface. What stays with me is the feeling I have when I look back. The lightness and freedom when I fall into a pile of fresh snow (immediately followed by the dread I feel when hiking through the dirt slush that hugs the curb for the next 3 months). The sticky, thick wetness of a NYC apartment in summer—sans air conditioning. The electric buzz of Times Square blinking her offerings to tourists hungry for…well…whatever they can imagine.

And the people. Actors, writers, musicians, yogis, teachers, students, homeless dudes, people posing as homeless dudes, drug dealers, waiters & waitresses, prostitutes, lovers, haters, fighters, peacemakers, Wall Street champs, drag queens, buskers, subway drivers, bodega owners…I can’t possibly list them all here.

My last day in NYC was a Friday. October 7, 2011. Warm. A little Indian summer just before the apple-crisp winds of autumn. I spent the morning packing up the last of my things. Sent a few last minute packages in the mail via the post office a block and a half away. A bus ride and a few subway stops later, I’m in Union Square. I swing by Trader Joe’s for a bottle of wine (thank-you-gift) then walk down Broadway and stop by the $1 shelves of the Strand. Looking for an airplane book (something Paulo Coelho-ish?), I instantaneously stumble upon The Celestine Prophecy, a parable from the ‘90s focused on the energy of the universe, synchronicities and the next phase of our evolution. “How perfect is that?” I think to myself. And in that moment, a book by that exact title (How Perfect is That) pops into my view. Follow the synchronicities. I walk through NYU land, past Tisch, beyond Houston and into Soho. I make a quick stop by my work and then I am off to the southern tip of Manhattan.

And it is here, at Occupy Wall Street, that I finally felt like I was perched on the perfect bridge between the life I once wore and the open space I now faced. I know the rosy, warm, soft hum of human connection, having spent time in SF and Burning Man and through practicing Orgasmic Meditation. And right there, in the cultural epi-center of the planet, the energy of fiscal greed was alchemized into pure love. It blew my mind. I could dance here to the drummers and whatever came out of me was innocent perfection. Old men, young girls, dirty punks with metal in their faces and crisply-dressed Wall Street players (their ties coming out of place as they self-consciously swayed to the beat) all met there. All accepted exactly as they were. Myself included. And for a few moments, in that swirling, intoxicating rhythm of my heart, I fell through the veil of self and other. We all…just…were. Together.

Holding my breath, I slipped out gently (so as not to tear the fabric that snuggled the group) to a friends place on Wall Street. I connected with her, floated on back up to Union Square for some goodbyes at Bar 13, and then made my way to the R train (the first train I took when I moved to NYC in 1998) for my final subway ride.

And as I stood on the late night platform, the raspy, singular sound of a man and his guitar jangled in my ear.

His song?

“New York State of Mind.”

Now…how perfect is that? 

Orgasmic Living: Peak, Excitement, Play

Open road on the way to Burning Man 2011

Originally posted October 12, 2011

When we least expect it, life sets us a challenge to test our courage and willingness to change; at such a moment, there is no point in pretending that nothing has happened or in saying that we are not ready. The challenge will not wait. Life does not look back. A week is more than enough time for us to decide whether or not to accept our destiny--Paulo Coelho


I am sitting in San Francisco writing this blog. At times I find myself amazed that I am here, working with OneTaste. Already, I can feel my tumescence rising. How do I fit in? Am I taking up too much space? Am I irritating people? How can I be best used? What do I really want? Do I deserve it? Am I asking for too much?

Frankly, I have gotten just about everything I have asked for. It’s funny to notice my discomfort in this situation. As soon as it’s offered to me, I want to reject it and ask for just a little bit less (don’t want to appear too greedy). Or I want to explain myself to others as to why I deserve what I want.

Let’s go back about 2 weeks ago. I began talking to one of the senior teachers at OneTaste. I knew, deep in my soul, that I needed to be a part of the new Orgasmic Meditation (OM) course inLos Angeles at the end of October. I feel that the next phase of orgasm includes bringing prominent people from the media into the movement. Also, I have an incredible desire to act in film—independent film that pushes boundaries and explores the “dark night of the soul.” So it all just made sense.

But as the conversation continued, there was more. Oh yes, a lot more. A deeper hunger emerged. A desire to move across the country, move in with the OM community, work with OneTaste, get trained in Orgasm, connect to my burner tribe, and (quite frankly) have sex. A lot of sex. A lot of good sex. And OM. A lot. 5 times a day. To connect deeply, fully, organically to my hunger (which for many years I had seen as my arch adversary).

The discussion lasted a few days, over email. Proposals were written. Negotiations made. But nothing set in stone. Then finally I began to see how (like a good girl) I was waiting for PERMISSION from other people (my bosses in NYC, my clients, my teachers, my friends) to “allow” me to make this change. And I thought to myself, “Dear God! This is my one and only life! The only person responsible for it is myself…and you know? The rest of the world will go on just fine if I leave NYC—in face, the world may even be better off if I follow my desire.”

So I gave myself one week. One week to leave my jobs, to say goodbye to my friends and clients, to ship my life across the country and take a big fucking chance that it would all work out: money, orgasm, a place to stay…everything. A lot can happen in a week. As Paulo Coelho says “A week is more than enough time for us to decide whether or not to accept our destiny.” I was completely capable to move across the country in a week. In fact, I was being called to do so.  I hit a peak and it was time to change the stroke. To keep going in NYC would drain me. Irritate me. And over time, a layer of resentment and bitterness would seep into my body.  It was time to leave. To go in a whole new direction.

So, though there were moments when I got choked up my last days in NYC, it felt so right. Saying goodbye, over and over, I felt a little more of the old me letting go and creating space for the woman I am becoming.

And now…I am living in my purpose, aka the excitement channel (in orgasmic terms). A time to create. A time of limitless possibility. A time to take responsibility for my desire and be bold enough to ask for what I want.

So. Desire. Orgasm. Purpose. Life. I am here. I have shown up to the game. Let’s play.

PS: Look for a later post on the magical experience that was my last day in NYC. Abundant with synchronicities and deeply fulfilling, the city and I shared a sweet goodbye that reminded me of why we fell in love in the first place.

If You Build It, They Will Come (But What If I Don't Know What I Am Building?)

My friend Lance and me as Vestal Virgins, Burning Man 2011

Originally posted September 16, 2011

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I/I took the one less-traveled by/And that has made all the difference. --Robert Frost

When I decided to move to the west coast, my intention was always to land in Los Angeles—and it still is. The film industry beckons me, as does the prospect of bringing Orgasmic Mediation to the myriad of package-pretty (but sensation-lacking) actors and actresses living in Tinseltown.

I had a plan: save up some money, buy a car and drive directly to LA at the beginning of 2012.

Only now, a pesky little gnat has taken up residence in my heart: Desire.

I recently spent four weeks out west, both in San Francisco and in the Black Rock Desert of Nevada as part of set-up and tear-down crew for the annual Burning Man festival (if you don’t know what that is, I really can’t explain it here, but trust me, it is a life-changing crucible of transformation). During these weeks, I experienced what it was like to feel validated as a sexually hungry woman. I felt creative in ways I never imagined (I painted a bunch of tables for Center Camp and gave a talk on creativity, purpose and orgasm—two things I have never done before!). I lived an existence where magic and synchronicity were the status quo. I celebrated my 31stbirthday on the playa. And I found my people. As I write this now I am starting to weep. Family. People who see all of you and love every little crazy, creepy, freaky, dirty, shiny, golden scrap of your wounded being. People, who when I say “I am sad” or “I am angry”, say “Great! Tell me about it!”—not the usual “Get over it” or “Awww, everything’s gonna be ok.” Most of all, I learned how to better express my own love. To not hold back out of fear of what the “Other” is thinking, but to just fucking stand up, look someone in the eye (with love and without entitlement) and say “This is what I feel. This is what I want.”

So now, all I can think about is how the hell I can get to San Francisco as soon as possible. Not in a passing “I’ll spend a week there on my way to LA” kind of way. But in a serious, 3-4 month energetic fortification before making my way to jungles of Los Angeles. As in buying a one-way ticket two weeks from today, donating most of my possessions and shipping the rest. Tying a hasty little bow on this 13-year love affair with New York City.

The thing is…I’m scared. Really. Do I have a job in SF? No. Do I have a place to live? Well, maybe a crash pad for a few weeks, but certainly nothing really affordable for me right now. Do I have a car (so I really need one)? A plan? Any real good reason to do this?

I mean, this doesn’t make sense! I just signed a 3-month teaching contract at the City University of New York. I have clients at the studio I teach out of in Soho. I need to be saving money now and moving costs a lot of money!

And yet…it all just feels like an excuse to me.

Because the bottom line is that my desire is calling me in a BIG FUCKING WAY to SF—right now in this very moment (oh man, here come the tears again).

I know what you are thinking: “Oh Lord, another one of these people who is making crazy life changes after going to Burning Man.” I hear you. But, this isn’t my first time at the burn, ya know. It’s my third, so it’s not as if I just experienced all this opening for the first time and I have decided to sell my life and become a monk in the Himalayas. I mean, I already started selling everything I own last April. I already had a plan to go west for the past year. And I am keeping in step with the purpose I was put here for: to perform and to bring OMing to everyone. It simply feels like I am now listening even more closely to my body, which yearns to accelerate at a pace I had not anticipated.

At Burning Man, my intention was to let go of the Good Girl/Princess and to step into the role of a Queen. Though there is still always work to be done here, I feel as if I shed a huge part of the last 10 years of my life on the playa. And in this lightness, I have found an immediacy, a weightlessness and a freedom in life. I can’t return now to the old ways of living: holding myself back, waiting for the right moment, scrimping by on “just enough”, living in the land of “if only” or “what if.” The moment is now. Always. The moment is right now. It’s simply up to me to choose which direction to go…

Dropping the Fairy Tale: Good Girls vs. Good Women

Anne Hathaway, Princess Diaries

Originally posted July 23, 2011

Once again it’s time for another one of those posts that explores the finer distinctions between two seemingly similar subjects (you may remember an earlier post of mine, What do you REALLY want: Desire vs. Craving).

Through the questions that arise in coaching sessions to observations made in nail salons to my own personal journey, I have discovered that we as women have a hard time letting go of the “good girl.” You know, the one all in pink who sat quietly in church, never tells a lie and is the apple of daddy’s eye? No, you don’t, because she doesn’t exist. As much as we try to be that “good girl,” our desire and orgasm sneak out in a lot of ways. It can leave us feeling exhausted doting on others and guilty in our inadequacy. Or perhaps we’ve rejected our desire for so long, we react in anger and blame those who “took advantage of us.”

In any case, we are grown now. Free women to choose what we want, whenever we want it…right? Well, not exactly. Our bodies may have matured, but the way that we interact with the world has changed very little from when we were 4 years old. In fact, we still live in a society that very much reinforces the notion of a high-class lady as being pre-pubescent thin, beautiful and, above all, very proper. Any other type of woman is troubled, too much, crazy, a slut, etc (you’d never see Prince William fight for the hand of someone like Lady Gaga, even if he were madly in love with her).

So I’ve come to set the record straight and help out my fellow ladies who are working on finding their voice and coming to their power. No, to break out of the “good girl” mold, you don’t have to become Lady Gaga (though I love that woman with every ounce of my being). But you will have to confront and let go of a lot of old ways of relating that kept you safe and comfortable in the past.

So, without further ado, I bring you the Top 10 ways of telling a “Good Girl” from a “Good Woman.”

1. A good girl runs from fear. A good woman embraces it.

A good girl doesn’t want to rock the boat. She’s afraid of hurting people, going outside the box…essentially she is afraid of life. A good woman doesn’t escape her fear, but she leans into it, because she knows her ultimate fulfillment comes from discovering the desire on the other side.

2. A good girl denies her hunger. A good woman relishes it.

“Oh, no thank you, I’m full.” “Oh I’ll just have the diet platter.” “I’ll skip dessert. I’m being good this week.” We’ve all heard the catchphrase of women still caught in “good girl” mentality. And we also know that women dieting are more likely than not having orgasms. And this doesn’t mean that a good woman is stuffing her face all the time and pigging out on cheetos and bon-bons. But a good woman slows down and knows herself well enough to choose what is nourishing and relish every bite…whether it’s the grilled fish and asparagus, or the double chocolate chip cake. She eats life to feed her soul, not to numb the sensation.

3. A good girl withholds. A good woman adjusts.

A good girl is going to tell her partner what she thinks he wants to hear, but in the process, she holds back a piece of her voice. That unspoken desire sits in her body and, over time, rots into shame and resentment. Over time, she will (consciously or unconsciously) do things to her partner to punish him…and ultimately herself. A good woman tells her partner the truth. She approves of him/her and learns to calibrate her words so she can be heard and received, while fully expressing what it is she wants. She adjusts her partner (and is desires to receive the same kind of attention and honesty in return).

4. A good girl receives with guilt. A good woman receives with grace.

Good girls may accept a gift, but there is always a string of “you shouldn’t have” or “that’s too much” or “you didn’t have to do this” that comes along with it. She has to knock herself down a few notches in order to make it acceptable to receive, lest she feel her hunger (and subsequent shame) that comes with receiving. A good woman says “thank you”. Just thank you. Because she knows she is worthy (without the insecure timbre of entitlement). She listens to her hunger, knows when she is full and pours out genuine gratitude.

5. A good girl does what looks right. A good woman does what feels right.

A good girl follows a tried-and-true structure that will elicit positive reinforcement from her partner and the people in her life. A good woman moves from an instinctual compass. While it may look messy from the outside, deep within her body, she knows it is the path for her.

6. A good girl stuffs her anger. A good woman alchemizes it.

Good girls don’t get angry. Bullshit. They just stuff it until it seeps out as passive aggressiveness. A good woman acknowledges her anger in the moment and feels into it so she can know where she is out of integrity in her life. From there, she can use the force of that anger as power to change course.

7. A good girl strives for perfection. A good woman lives in perfection.

A good girl lives her life seeking to perfect perceived “impurities” in her life, so she is never fully able to relax and drop into the present, lest someone catch a glimpse of her ugliness. A good woman sees every moment as perfect, with both it’s divinity and it’s humanity.

8. A good girl’s desire is frozen. A good woman’s desire is dynamic.

A good girl is bred to want the same thing every day and desire only so much as is socially acceptable. She has lost the connection to the freedom that comes with spontaneity. In fact, she will often deny that she wants the very thing that will give her the deepest satisfaction. A good woman’s desire ebbs and flows like the tide: small and humble in one moment, wild and tempestuous in the next. But it is always, always authentic and she is constantly seeking to expand her container to hold more.

9. A good girl submits. A good woman surrenders.

A good girl submits, relinquishing her power to perceived “authorities” in order to escape the clamoring cry of her orgasm. A good woman surrenders control to her orgasm, and thus holds her own amongst the truly powerful.

10. A good girl waits for the fairy tale. A good woman creates her own legacy.

A good girl is still trapped in a tower, like a virginal princess waiting in vain for Prince Charming to save her. Over time, she can turn jaded and bitter, a “victim” of the happily-ever-after story she bought. A good woman turns the key to the door, descends the tower staircase and, like a Queen, enters the vast terrain of her own pleasure. It is from this empowered place that she can choose the life she truly desires.

The Cancer of Hopelessness: How one crazy dude and two rock bands whacked me from despair

Dreams, Aaron Bohrod

Originally posted July 10, 2011

I’ve been rather low these past few days with this feeling of “why bother?” I can work hard my whole life and will it really make a difference? Am I just a dreamer who has lost touch with reality? Who cares about my selfish little dreams when there are people on the planet who are starving, being beaten and mutilated, and who don’t have the freedom to speak their minds? Shouldn’t I just shut up and be thankful for all that I have?

Well, no. First of all I know that all that talk is just my fear and my shame around asking and receiving what I want. Those voices provide a strong argument for me to NOT do the scary, hard work of being an advocate for the dreamers and the optimists and for the people who believe that if I touch just one life today, even anonymously, then that will be “enough.”

Technology is advancing at an exponential rate. Will social progress come along for the ride and bring issues like gender equality, global poverty, religious freedom and environmental conservation to light? To my surprise (and despair) an overwhelming number of people I know do not think so.

There seems to be an all-pervading cancer of hopelessness that is seeping into our culture and keeps us from living our natural state of joy, grace, pleasure and abundance. It disguises itself in many forms. There are those who sit back and say “There’s never gonna be peace anyway, so might as well let the bastards blow each other up.” Another group may say, “That’s happening over there. It doesn’t affect me. I’ve got my own to take care of.” And then there are others who are aware of what’s happening but get stuck in their anger, righteous indignation, and separation from humanity. “How dare THOSE people shit all over the planet and ruin it for the rest of us.”

We’re all stuck. For every tweet that goes out to topple the repressive regime in one country, there is another self-serving group waiting to grab power. For every step forward, it feels like we end up twenty steps back from where we started. We are all living life as fast as we can in the hopes to die number 1.

And yet…I can’t help but return full of hope. There is something in me that won’t let me quit. Call is purpose. Call it orgasm. Call it the silly dreamer sickness. Yes, we are bombarded with images of despair now more than ever. But that is in fact exactly what we need to take the first steps towards healing. GLOBAL AWARENESS. 100 years ago, someone in a third world country would not have even known that riches exist for someone like him. Now he knows it’s possible. A woman who is forced to hide her sexuality in an extremely oppressive society now knows that somewhere in the world exists a place where she could express herself. A gay kid trapped in the reddest of red states now knows that somewhere is a place where his love will be legally honored. And we can no longer turn our eyes away from the truth that another person’s pain is our own. We can now put a face to the “global issue.”

Awareness leads to possibility which leads to hope. And hope is what keeps us alive in the darkest hours. Yes. It’s gonna get messy at first. Anytime you start airing out dirty laundry, the resentments will spill out all over yourself and others. In fear we try to hold onto them and cast them onto others in blame. It may feel safe and comfortable in the moment, but that’s the easy way out. The path sustainable change is to recognize those resentments as unexpressed desires, take responsibility for them and ask for forgiveness from those we have hurt along the way. Only as the old energy passes through us are we able to clear a space for the frozen pain to melt and the wounds to heal.

A final story: I walking home this afternoon. I had my ipod on. Beautiful day. I was just starting to emerge from the feeling of hopelessness that had being weighing me down when out of nowhere: WHACK! This homeless-looking man passes me and (intentionally) hits me hard on my upper arm. I stand there. Shocked. People are staring at me with looks of confusion and concern. One girl asks “Are you OK?” I touch my arm to check for bruising or blood and nervously laugh. “I’m fine,” I say. I turn to look at my attacker and he is mocking me. The way I touch my arm. The way I am laughing. As if I am some stupid bitch. Again, I am shocked. I can see this man is clearly unstable. I drop into him and feel not anger, but a deep sadness at how far gone he is. What amounts of pain must he have experienced that he must completely check out of life in order to cope? I turned away and kept walking. One man looked at me and in solidarity said, “What a douche.” But I didn’t feel like dismissing the attacker. He was alive and real, just like me. I softly said, “He’s obviously not in his right mind.”

I continue on and notice a deep welling in my throat. Hmmm…hope. Is there any hope of help for him? And if not, what about the millions of others around the world? If hopelessness is right here in my neighborhood, how the hell can I even think to be of service to those around the planet? I feel the despair creep back in.

And that’s when the universe steps in. At that moment Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’” starts to play on my ipod. OK, I know. It feels like a moment out of cheesy movie. But as I turned the corner onto empty Newtown Rd, the tears began to pour out of me. I suddenly had this rush of gratitude. Of remembrance. Oh yes, belief and hope are who I am and I am here to walk through the shadows to help others see what is possible. That there is life on the other side. That dreamers are not unrealistic fools. The crying overpowered me. My heart cracked open in the middle of the street. And then (just when I thought it was over), Ben Harper starts up next with, “When She Believes.” Now if that ain’t a sign from beyond, I don’t know what is. The tears start up all over again. Cleansing, sweet, open, grateful. I am finally in communion with that part of me that knows I am exactly where I need to be in this moment.


Next time I see that guy, I am going to say, “Thank you for waking me up! May your journey bring you freedom. There is hope yet.”

Embracing the Spiritual Paradox: The Sacred, The Profane, The Mundane

Amor Sacre Amor Profano, Titian

Originally published June 24, 2011

All right. I can feel it. This is going to be one of those entries that tries to mash up 15 journal entries into one barely coherent post. I apologize in advance. I’m not a writer. I just play one on the internet.

So, what does spiritual mean to you? Is it something high in the clouds? Pure? Is it deep and connected? Is it trippy altered states of being? Is it devotion to one omnipotent being? Is it being in nature? Or something completely different?

I say yes. Just yes. Whatever your answer is, yes. And your answer, yes. And your answer, yes. Because the bottom line is that ALL THAT EXISTS IS SPRITUAL. PERIOD. To deem one area of your life as being “spiritual” (i.e. when I do my meditation) and another as non-spiritual (i.e. when I drive my car or scream at my child) is to create divisions in your life, namely, the good, the bad and the boring. And this division leads to an underlying tension in all that you do. When things are good, fear of losing them creeps in, so you must grip, lest they slip away. When things are bad, you must reject and shut out the world. When things are boring, you must constantly seek out anything to fill the emptiness. All of these are ways to escape the present.

We’ve all felt “sacred” moments in our life. The sun making its first appearance on a fresh spring day. Sculptures of beautiful men and women. A baby being born. Our first kiss. A song. A group in deep prayer.

But what about when you are sick on your knees and hanging over a toilet? How about when you are washing lettuce? How about when your anger and jealousy consume you? How about when you are unlocking your door? How about when your marriage ends or your mother dies or you see people killing each other in foreign countries because everyone has a different name for “God”?

This post is not just about “sacred sexuality” or “sacred prostitution” (which is where most people go when they hear the union of sacred/profane). Indeed, what the hell is “sacred sex” anyway? What makes intercourse that is done with breathwork/chanting/eye-gazing anymore spiritual than a fingerbang in the bathroom of a nightclub? True, participants may be more conscious in one scenario than another. Participants may be more in alignment in their personal integrity in one scenario than another. Maybe not. But all experiences stand alone on their own as spiritual and opportunities to plug into ourselves deeper. It’s just our idea of that we believe spirituality to be that keeps us grasping for certain experiences in life and avoiding others (which is the fundamental nature of suffering).

What if we explored the possibility that THE UNIVERSE DOES NOT MAKE MISTAKES. Can we expand our perspective and hold the paradox that everything, from Wall Street tycoons to rapists to priests to crack addicts to paint drying to the Dalai Lama to George Carlin’s seven words are all expressions of Spirit and offer an opportunity for connection and self-reflection.

Doesn’t mean life is easy. Or pretty. Or nice. Or exciting. Hell it downright sucks a lot of the time. And yet if you can slow down and simply feel what is (underneath your history or expectations), you would see the miracle it took to bring you here. Mel Robbins has a great  where she says that the odds of being born in this moment in time are one in 400 trillion! Now imagine those odds coupled with another person being born in this moment AND the odds of your two sharing the same energy field. Now imagine more miracle-people moving in and out, like threads on a loom. What an incredible tapestry of life you weave. And you are an expression of Spirit. And so is the chair. And the floor. And the cockroach. All these pieces coming together for you to interact in service of self-realization in your one miracle-life.

Furthermore can we begin to see that pain is actually a gift on the journey. Your anger and fear provide valuable information as to where you are out of integrity in your life and where your desire lies. Your grief in losing a loved one is a chance to crack open your heart and cleanse your soul of past residue. War is a reminder that there is still so much work to be done in the INTERNAL landscape of our spirit (as Osho says, “You cannot change the society first and hope that individuals will change later on”).

So notice where you are fixed in your perspective in life and try to invite in a new way. Notice who or what you deem as “worthy of your attention” and who is not. Notice who you blame for all the world’s problems. Bush. Obama. Republicans. Corporate America. Porn. Hollywood. The Government. Your Parents. Whatever. Then invite the possibility that all that is just is. Begin to take responsibility for your own life. Begin to accept the challenge made to you on the miraculous day of your birth: to come to know yourself and your soul’s purpose through self-discovery in relationship and integration (not in avoidance, rejection or “rising above”) to all that is.

You chose this life. Really. If you don’t like it, you can bitch and moan and blame and try to run away from it and into the “sacred.” Or you can choose to accept responsibility for all that you are, find the Spirit that already exists in this moment and move forward empowered to create the life for which you were born.

For a brilliant (and more succinct) view on the topic, check out Ken Wilbur’s talk on Beauty and Spirit, where he explores the Good, the Beautiful and the True (in my language, the Sacred, the Profane and the Mundane). Shout out to Jason D. McClain who brought this stunning video to my attention.

,

Take Responsibility for Your Orgasm (for Women Who are “Too Much”)

,

Red Sea

Originally published June 8, 2011

…and really, what woman isn’t too much? Even the mousy, little librarian types at some point in their lives got the message that they were “too much” and to manage that, they squashed their orgasmic energy down into this tiny little thimble that they try to tuck away in the back folds of their skirts.

Ladies, the cat’s out of the bag. I see you. You have a volcano of raw, potent power just aching to be expressed, no matter how many times you try to sweetly deny it, act out in anger or run for the box doughnuts. Not only do I know you are powerful, it is in fact your sacred RESPONSIBILITY to cultivate that power and use it in service of evolving the planet.

So, go ahead, do us all a favor and add ‘orgasm’ to the top of your very busy to-do list (no, not after picking Billy up from soccer and making dinner…to the top).

Because when you don’t come from nourishing fullness, deep desire and pleasure, you are running on empty. Dry. Drained. Irritated. And it’s painful to watch. And because you are trying to hide the mountain of orgasm that you do possess, your energy leaks out in some very unhealthy (and often addictive) ways. Some more socially acceptable than others, but none in the best interest of your creative potential.

Maybe you constantly seek out relationships in order to quiet that nagging hunger you feel when you are alone and use seduction as a tool for the attention you crave. Maybe you try to stuff it down with binge eating or numb it out with the latest reality TV show. Maybe you use self-deprecating humor to deflect from the pain of your void. Maybe you lash out and blame everyone around you who you perceive as trying to ‘hold you back’ or ‘violate your rights’. Maybe your passive aggressiveness seeps out the sides like a sticky tar that keeps you frozen in fear and fury. Maybe you starve your orgasm to get the ultimate prize—weighing under 100 pounds (yeah, that one almost cost me my life).

The list goes on. Ladies, the time is now to recognize our power and take responsibility for it. It’s as if we women are the size of the Atlantic Ocean and we’ve been trying all our lives to fit intoLake Michigan. We dam up our waters, keeping them tightly reined in, but eventually we spill over and all the people we love get washed away. So we feel guilty and try to suck it in even more. Or we tell off those motherfuckers who just couldn’t handle us.

But now (thankfully) you know the truth. You are an ecosystem, teeming with vitality! Expand your container. Create the space to hold your bigness. Flow out to the edges of your known world so you can discover the life that is meant for you. And from your vast fullness, you can now carry sailors to new shores. Be part of the cycle that will nourish life on the planet. Provide a home for the myriad of sea-dwelling creatures. Your feminine energy is the planet’s greatest untapped natural resource.

You might be going “But HOW do I do this???” Great question. Start with slowing down and making a gentle inquiry as to where you are in life. Are you living a life of pleasure or just hoping to make it through the day? Where are you out of your integrity? What are the little ways you cheat yourself of the fullness of your life? Where do you cast blame on others for your problems? Do you wake up in the mornings excited about your life, or dreading it? Is your sex life fulfilling or empty (or non-existent!). Stay curious and compassionate as you ask yourself these questions, as they can bring up a lot of feelings of anger, shame, fear and guilt.

Other tools you can use are creating gratitude lists, practice speaking your truth (I recommend responsibly enrolling people you trust in that game), closing open cycles, doing anonymous acts of service, taking time for self-care and letting go of toxic relationships. But the biggest piece of advice I can give any woman is to OM. Setting aside 15 minutes per day to surrender in a safe container that is created purely for the exploration of orgasm is nothing short of miraculous. You will alchemize your energy into pure gold.

It may seem selfish and weird and awkward and you may fumble on your journey towards grace and power. And that too is part of your beauty. The hiccups. The slips, trips, falls and imperfections are what make you so unique and devastatingly irresistible to all who come into your sphere.

So laugh. A lot. And have courage. Trust in who you are and what you know. The world awaits you…